<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Life Is Not A Fairy Tale by LulaIsAKitten</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084893">Life Is Not A Fairy Tale</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten'>LulaIsAKitten</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>First Kisses [52]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cinderella - Freeform, F/M, First Kiss, New Shoes, TW - drink spiking (referenced)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:26:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,438</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084893</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin gets new shoes, and goes out to celebrate.</p><p>I have so much else to be getting on with, but I saw <a href="https://lulacat3.tumblr.com/post/612146981568135168/i-saw-this-and-a-fic-leapt-into-my">this</a>, and boom - this fic leapt, fully-formed, into my head, as they do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>First Kisses [52]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1022949</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Life Is Not A Fairy Tale</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Strike was just fishing the tea bag out of his mug in the office kitchenette when he heard Robin clattering up the stairs. A soft smile curved his uneven lips and he reached another mug down from the shelf and dropped a fresh tea bag into it. By the time Robin burst into the office, slightly out of breath, he’d poured the water and her brew, too, was steeping.</p><p>“Good trip?” he asked. Robin had gone to meet Ilsa in Covent Garden for lunch and shopping.</p><p>Robin grinned at him, sparkling and animated, and his heart gave the familiar twist that it so often did these days, that he was becoming well accustomed to ignoring.</p><p>“I bought shoes!”</p><p>Strike grinned. He knew enough about women to know from the sparkle in her eyes that these were special shoes. It was unlike Robin to be so traditionally girly, and it made him twinkle back at her fondly. “Go on, then, let’s see.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” But she was already dragging the box out of the bag dangling from her hand. She opened it and pulled out a pillar-box red patent high-heeled shoe. “Ta-da!”</p><p>Strike raised an eyebrow. “They’re very...red. And tall.”</p><p>Robin grinned. “Yup. My divorce present, from me to me.” She put the shoes on the floor and kicked off her beige court shoes. “I always wanted red shoes, but Matt said they were trashy. And he hated me wearing tall heels because then I was as tall as him and he said the man should be taller. So—” she was sliding her stockinged feet into the red shoes now, and Strike <em>definitely</em> wasn’t transfixed by her slender ankles and pink-painted toenails “—proper red heels for me!” She stood triumphant, almost as tall as him, one hand on her hip, confident and gorgeous.</p><p>Strike realised that he was staring, and that some compliment was expected of him. “They’re great,” he said, firmly. “Matthew would have hated them.”</p><p>It was the right thing to have said. Robin grinned. “He so would. I’m Dorothy!” She clicked her heels together and giggled, and her happiness was like music in Strike’s ears. “And Ilsa and I are going out tonight to celebrate.”</p><p>“Your...divorce?” Strike carefully hid his disappointment. It was Friday, and he’d been hoping they’d go to the Tottenham as always.</p><p>“Nah, we’ve celebrated that,” Robin replied, slipping her shoes off — those toenails again, soft pink and doing fluttery things to his libido — and putting them back in the box. “Tonight we’re celebrating my new shoes.”</p><p>She slid her feet back into her work shoes, and Strike took a deep breath and forced his wayward thoughts back under control. “Celebrating shoes? That’s a thing?”</p><p>“Oh, yes.” Robin nodded firmly. “It’s a rare thing in a woman’s life, to find a pair of shoes she loves as much as I love these. Only happens a few times. Got to be celebrated.”</p><p>Strike nodded, bemused, and turned back to finish making the tea.</p><p>...</p><p>“Bastard shoes. Hate ’em!” Robin kicked the offending articles off under the pub table as Ilsa set two more glasses of wine down. “Look, my toe is actually bleeding now!”</p><p>Ilsa peered under the table, squinting drunkenly at Robin’s feet. They’d walked miles, mostly round in circles through Covent Garden following “lying bastard Google Maps” as Robin had now christened it, trying to find the trendy wine bar Vanessa had recommended and insisted was in this area.</p><p>“Ouch,” she declared with sympathy. Robin was sporting several large blisters, and one toe was indeed rubbed raw. “Tha’s gonna hurt tomorrow.” She took a slug of her wine.</p><p>“Hurts now,” Robin grumbled. “Stupid bloody shoes.” She dug in her bag, and triumphantly pulled out a small cloth bag.</p><p>“Wassat?” Ilsa leaned in to look.</p><p>“Butterfly Twists.”</p><p>“Butterfly—wha’?”</p><p>“Foldable flats,” Robin replied, removing and unfolding a pair of flat shoes. “Girl’s best friend on surveillance. Soft and quiet, keep ’em in your bag. Better ’an clicky heels when you’re tailing someone.” She dropped the soft shoes to the floor and slid her poor, battered feet into them with a sigh of relief.</p><p>“Good plan.” Ilsa pushed Robin’s wine towards her, and she obediently took a gulp, then picked up the offending red shoes and looked at them, and looked at the little cloth bag.</p><p>“Not gonna fit,” she muttered.</p><p>It took the girls the rest of their glasses of wine to work out that the red shoes were not going to fit into Robin’s handbag no matter how she angled them. Muttering under her breath, Robin finally gave up and stood.</p><p>“Gonna have to carry the stupid things,” she said crossly. “Come on. Had ’nough wine now. We need cocktails!”</p><p>Ilsa peered at her in a brief moment of clarity. “Cocktails? Tha’ a good idea?” Dinner was a distant memory, having occurred several hours ago and been well washed down since.</p><p>“Course it is!” Robin said stoutly. “We’re celebratin’!”</p><p>Ilsa shrugged. “Okay!” she replied cheerfully.</p><p>They set off again.</p><p>...</p><p>Strike strolled slowly along the pavement, smoking and allowing the crowds to part for him. Being six foot three and broad had its advantages. He had decided to make his way to the Cambridge, which had good guest ales, and was now heading back for last orders at the Tottenham which would hopefully be quieter. He’d had a perfectly pleasant evening, happy in his own company, people-watching and thinking over his cases and idly looking at his crossword, but he’d missed Robin’s easy company.</p><p>A gaggle of drunk women approached him from the opposite direction, nudging one another and giggling as they noticed him. Strike made his face look as forbidding as he could, and stepped off the pavement to let them pass. His icy stare into the distance did the trick, and they wandered on, still giggling, looking for the next bar.</p><p>A flash of red caught his eye as he went to step back onto the pavement. Ahead of him, between the edge of a bus shelter and an overflowing bin, a shoe lay upside down, half on the pavement and half off. Something snagged in his keen brain, and he stooped to pick it up.</p><p>It was red patent leather, a tall heel. He turned it over. Hardly worn. Size 7.</p><p>He stood frozen, staring at it, ignoring people grumbling and tutting as they had to navigate around him. He turned it back over in his hand, and looked at the little black zigzag detail around the bottom of the heel that he’d noticed in the office earlier. This was Robin’s shoe.</p><p>His heart pounded. <em>Don’t jump to conclusions, Strike.</em> This was London. Lots of people could have bought these shoes. But this was Robin’s size, and clearly had barely been worn. There were few scratches on the underneath. No marks on the patent leather sides. What could have happened to Robin that would have caused her to lose it? Images of her being bundled into a car filled his mind, her struggling, the shoe going flying—</p><p>He rummaged in his pocket for his mobile. With shaking fingers he keyed in his passcode, getting it wrong twice in his haste, and found Robin’s number in his contacts list. He pressed to call her, then listened, the phone against his ear, as it rang and rang and went to voicemail.</p><p><em>Shit</em>. He cut the call and rang again. “Come on, come on—” he muttered. Voicemail again.</p><p>With a feeling verging on panic, he scrolled down to H and rang Ilsa.</p><p>“CORM!” Strike pulled his phone from his ear slightly as Ilsa’s shriek reverberated through his skull.</p><p>“Ils, is Robin with you? I’m trying to ring her—”</p><p>“Yeah, I know. She’s ’ere. You keep hangin’ up before she c’n press the button.”</p><p>Strike rolled his eyes, his leaping heart beginning to settle. “It’s going to voicemail.”</p><p>“Aaaaaah.” Ilsa’s voice went distant. “’S Corm,” he heard her say. “Says you keep goin’ to voicemail.”</p><p>There was a pause. “No, not him, you. He was callin’ you.” He distinctly heard Ilsa hiccough as she came back on the line. “Din’t you, Corm?”</p><p>“Ilsa, how much have you two had to drink? And why isn’t Robin wearing her shoes?”</p><p>“We’re havin’ cocktails,” Ilsa replied with dignity. “An’ Robin’s stupid, mean shoes gave her blisters. Wait!” She paused, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “How d’you know she’s not wearin’ ’em? You’re <em>freaky</em>.”</p><p>Strike shook his head, grinning now. “Where are you?”</p><p>“Um... Covent Garden. I think. Maybe Soho now. Got bit lost tryna find a bar.”</p><p>“Okay, but where?”</p><p>“Er, dunno. ’S got cocktails. An’ birds.”</p><p>“Birds?”</p><p>“Yeah, pretty birds. Onna windows.”</p><p>“Ah, I know where you are.” <em>Paradise</em>, he thought. Exotic birds painted onto the windows and exotic cocktails. And presumably Robin and Ilsa were oblivious in their drunken state to the other...exotic services on offer. He was certain the male clientele would not be so unaware. “I’m coming to find you.”</p><p>“Ooh, okay,” Ilsa said. “You gotta pretend to be a girl, though. They like girls in ’ere.”</p><p>“I bet they do,” Strike replied darkly. “Don’t move.” He hung up and set off, more briskly than his leg liked, a man on a mission. He was pretty sure that Paradise would have bouncers who would ensure their rare female customers didn’t come to any harm. The thought of Robin and Ilsa being ogled by the other punters made him speed up even more, though.</p><p>...</p><p>Strike shouldered his way into the Soho club and spotted Robin and Ilsa at once. It didn’t take him long, with his intimidating presence and the girls’ delighted shrieks at his arrival, to dispense with the two young men trying to chat them up, and he soon managed to manoeuvre them out onto the pavement. They were, mercifully, not as drunk as he’d feared — well beyond tipsy, certainly, but upright and coherent.</p><p>“Right, you two,” he said, regarding them with amusement. “What am I going to do with you?” He gently steered them along, back towards Denmark Street. There was a taxi rank in this direction.</p><p>“More cocktails!” Ilsa cried.</p><p>“I think maybe you’ve had enough cocktails,” Strike said, grinning down at her. “Coffee?”</p><p>Ilsa pouted. “Boring.” She peered up at Strike and then looked around. “Where’s Nick? Din’t you bring ’im?”</p><p>Strike shook his head fondly. “I haven’t seen him,” he replied. “I assume he’s at home.” He smiled down at Robin, padding along thoughtfully on the other side of him. She grinned back, making his heart constrict a little. Still gorgeous.</p><p>Ilsa nodded sadly. “He’s missin’ out.”</p><p>Strike nodded towards the taxi rank at the end of the street. “How about we send you to find him, and I’ll make sure Robin gets home?”</p><p>Ilsa brightened. “Ooh, yeah. I’ll go get him, see if he wants to come an’ party.”</p><p>Strike nodded. “You do that,” he replied. “I’m sure your husband would love to join two drunk women and me at—” he glanced at his watch “—half past eleven on a Friday night.”</p><p>Ilsa peered up at him, wobbling, and he grabbed her arm to steady her. “You bein’ sarcastic?” she asked suspiciously.</p><p>He chuckled at her. “Let’s pop you in a cab.”</p><p>Robin waited, idly swinging her single shoe, while Strike put Ilsa into a black cab and gave the driver her address. He pulled his phone from his pocket and rang Nick as Ilsa settled in and checked she had her bag.</p><p>“Yeah, mate, it’s me. Long story, the girls are pretty tipsy. I’m putting Ilsa in a cab now. No, Ilsa, don’t get out. You’re going to find Nick. Yup, mate. From Soho. Yup. Ilsa, stay! Sit there till you see Nick, okay? Yeah, Nick, they’re leaving now. Good luck!” With a snigger he hung up and slammed the cab door, and Ilsa was whisked away.</p><p>Robin was still looking thoughtful as Strike turned back to her. “Right. Shall I ring Louis and tell him you’re on the way too?”</p><p>Robin shook her head. “He’s away on tour.”</p><p>Strike hesitated, trying to decide how drunk she was, if he could send her home alone. He could go with her, get her settled... “What’s up?”</p><p>Robin was making faces, running her tongue round her teeth. “That last drink tasted weird.”</p><p>“What drink? Weird how?” Strike asked sharply.</p><p>“Cocktail. Dunno, just...weird.”</p><p>“Did you buy it?”</p><p>“No. Think Ilsa did.”</p><p>Strike stared at her for a moment, but the decision was made. “Right. You’re coming home with me.”</p><p>“What? Why?” Robin frowned, confused.</p><p>“It’s just nearer,” Strike replied soothingly, and pulled his phone from his pocket again. He gently steered Robin to walk along the pavement, and typed, badly, a text to Nick with his thumb. <b>Robin says drink taste weird. Keep an eye.</b></p><p>By the time they reached Denmark Street, he’d got a thumbs up from Nick, and by the time he’d got Robin up to his flat, a follow-up text confirming Ilsa was home. Robin was quiet, but behaving normally as far as Strike could tell.</p><p>“You okay?” he asked her gently as he ushered her into his living room and closed the door behind them. Robin nodded.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” he peered at her anxiously. How would he tell if her drink had been spiked? She didn’t look spaced out or odd, just drunk and a bit...down.</p><p>“Sad.” Robin pulled a face. She held up her hand to show him the solitary red shoe dangling from her fingers. “Lost my new shoe.”</p><p>“Well—”</p><p>“It’s all alone in the world. Lost its other half. Like me.” Robin sniffed a little.</p><p>Strike snorted. “You didn’t lose your other half, you booted him, and you’re well shot of him. And anyway, look.” He pulled her shoe from his pocket and held it out to her.</p><p>Robin stared and stared. “How—?”</p><p>“You must have dropped it. I found it.”</p><p>“How did you know it was mine?”</p><p>Strike shrugged. “It’s the right size, and hadn’t been worn long, and it’s got those zigzags on it.”</p><p>Robin raised her gaze to his. “You saw it once, for like two minutes.”</p><p>He shrugged again. “I notice stuff.”</p><p>“And you came and found us?”</p><p>“I rang to check you were okay. I came to find you because you were in a strip club.”</p><p>Robin clapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes round. “We were?”</p><p>“Yup.” Strike grinned.</p><p>“I wondered why we were the only women. I din’t see any strippers though.”</p><p>“No, it’s one of the classier places. Bar out front, stripping in the back.”</p><p>Robin peered up at him. “How d’you know?”</p><p>Strike grinned again. “Research.”</p><p>Robin nodded slowly, and her eyes drifted back down to the shoe he was still proffering. She raised her wrist and squinted at her watch.</p><p>“’S midnight.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“I lost my shoe, and you found it and brought it to me.” She started giggling. “I’m not Dorothy, I’m Cinderella!”</p><p>Strike chuckled. “Life isn’t a fairytale, Robin. If you lose your shoe at midnight, you’re just drunk.”</p><p>“And Cinderella,” she insisted. She stuck her foot out. “Go on, then.”</p><p>Strike stared at her foot. When had she kicked the soft shoes off? “What?”</p><p>“Try it on me. See if it fits.”</p><p>“Robin, it’s your shoe. And by the looks of your poor toe, it doesn’t.”</p><p>She pouted prettily, and he was entranced by her. Who knew sensible, steady, hardworking Robin could fall in love with bright red shoes and pout like that? “You’re ruining it.”</p><p>“Ruining what?”</p><p>“My Cinderella moment.”</p><p>Strike looked at her, and at her foot, and against his better judgment found himself lowering himself to his knees. It was not a graceful movement, but then nor was Robin’s, swaying slightly and holding the wall for balance.</p><p>He took a deep breath, the shoe in his right hand, and gently took hold of her ankle with his left.</p><p>Her ankles were impossibly delicate, her skin so smooth. Her toes pointed for him, those perfect pink toenails. Her whole foot was so slender and delicate compared to his, pale and slim.</p><p>Breathing a little unsteadily suddenly, he slowly slid the red shoe onto her foot. Robin wiggled her toes just a little, and then the shoe was on.</p><p>Reluctantly Strike let go of her leg, his fingers trailing across irresistibly silky skin as her foot dropped to the floor.</p><p>He glanced up at her, and she was gazing down at him with hooded eyes, pupils wide, and his heart skipped a few beats. There was heat in her gaze, he was sure of it. Wordlessly she passed him the other shoe that she was still holding.</p><p>He took it, and she held out her other foot, wobbling again, balanced on one heel. Strike slid his hand around her ankle again, and found his fingers sliding up her calf at the back as he more confidently fitted the shoe to this foot. His hand lingered, fingers softly caressing her skin, and he raised his gaze back to hers.</p><p>A soft smile had curved her lips, and as he gazed up at her, his hand still gently stroking her leg, she grinned and reached down for him. His hand slid from her leg to meet hers, and then with a heave from Robin and an ungainly scramble from Strike, she pulled him back upright.</p><p>He was far too close, and she was as tall as him now in the sky-high heels.</p><p>She was still smiling. “Who knew my Prince Charming was a gorgeous, hairy Cornish giant?” she murmured.</p><p>Startled, Strike laughed, breaking the moment somewhat. “I think I might be more Shrek than Prince Charming,” he retorted. “Forced to watch at Christmas with my nephews,” he explained in answer to her quizzical look.</p><p>Robin shrugged. “Shrek was the better catch anyway,” she said, and kissed him.</p><p>It was a not unexpected development after the last ten minutes, but still Strike jumped. He’d have expected, if asked to speculate, that Robin would be tentative, unsure, but she kissed him confidently, and he was kissing her back at once. It was a novel experience, to kiss a woman almost the same height as him, and he liked it — no stooping, no cricked neck. He explored her mouth with his tongue, and she moaned a little and pressed closer. She tasted sweet, soft, exotic—</p><p>Remembering suddenly, Strike pulled back, and Robin made a tiny whimpering noise of protest. His eyes searched hers. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>Robin arched a tipsy eyebrow at him. “Are you asking me if the earth just moved?”</p><p>Strike flushed. “No! No, I—” he hesitated.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You said your drink tasted weird. I wondered if it had been spiked.”</p><p>“Oh!” Realisation dawned. Robin shook her head. “No, not that kind of weird. Weird like...marzipan?”</p><p>“What was it?”</p><p>Robin shrugged. “Think Ilsa said it was a grandfather.”</p><p>Strike was struggling not to laugh now. “A godfather?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, coulda been.”</p><p>Strike nodded, grinning. “Disaronno.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Or amaretto. They’re kinds of liqueur. Taste of almonds.”</p><p>“Oh! I don’t like amaretto.”</p><p>“That’ll be it, then.”</p><p>“Yeah. Was yucky. Din’t like it. Think Ilsa had most of mine.”</p><p>Strike sighed with relief. “That explains why you’re a bit less pissed than her.”</p><p>He hesitated. “Um... Do you want me to call you a cab, then, if you’re okay and your drink wasn’t spiked?”</p><p>Robin put her head on one side. “Not really. D’you want me to go?”</p><p>“No,” he said at once.</p><p>“Then I’m going to take these hideously uncomfortable shoes back off—” Robin kicked the offending articles away, clutching at Strike’s arm for balance, making his heart rate spike again “—and go to sleep, if that’s okay?”</p><p>Strike nodded, squashing down his disappointment. He’d been rather hoping for more snogging, but she was a lot drunker than him. “That’s fine.” He smiled gently at her.</p><p>Robin moved away to the door of his bedroom, and stopped and looked back. “Are you coming?”</p><p>“I thought—” He stopped.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The camp bed—”</p><p>“Don’t be silly,” she told him softly. “Come and just...hold me?”</p><p>He’d taken a step before he could think, and stopped himself. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“I trust you,” she said simply.</p><p>“Nothing will happen that you don’t want, Robin.” His eyes bored into hers, willing her to see the truth of his words, really understand him.</p><p>She nodded slowly. “I know. That’s why I said it.”</p><p>She held out a hand, smiling softly. Strike slid his big hand into her smaller one and followed her into his bedroom.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>